


The Last Thing is What You Can't Get (Carlo)

by Culumacilinte



Category: British Comedian RPF
Genre: Fights, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-14
Updated: 2007-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-15 13:48:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,697
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/161418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Culumacilinte/pseuds/Culumacilinte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During filming of <i>Russell Brand on the Road</i>, Russell goes off with some American girl he meets at a bar, returning to his hotel room at 4:30 to an extremely irritated Matt.  Much shouting ensues.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Last Thing is What You Can't Get (Carlo)

‘Hallooo, Matt Morgan!’

Russell’s ridiculous trill fell flatly in the badly upholstered hotel room and the door slammed as he tripped in, wearing an obscenely wide smile and looking very much like a man who’d just had an extremely satisfactory orgasm.  Matt looked up from where he sat tensely on an uncomfortable mattress, clad in pants and t-shirt and smoking an angry cigarette. 

‘The fuck time d’you call this, Russell?’

Russell grinned one of his mad grins, postponing the inevitable moment of judgement just a bit longer, and ruffled his hair lazily.  It didn’t detract from the fact that the mussed state of it was rather less artful than usual and rather more “just-been-fucked.”  ‘I’d call it ‘round about four thirty in the morning.  What’re you doing up?  You look a right bloody sight; sat ‘round here in naught but your knickers.’

Matt closed his eyes, drew in a deep breath, and set aside the book he’d not really been reading.  ‘I’ve been waiting up for you; what d’you think?’

‘Well that was a bit daft of you, wasn’t it?  We’ve gotta be on the road tomorrow, after all.’

The sound of Matt’s teeth grinding together was practically audible.  ‘I know that, Russell, but it’s your show, isn’t it?  I stayed up to make sure you came back, ‘cos if you didn’t, we’d have some problems, wouldn’t we?’

Russell shrugged, not looking at Matt.  ‘If you’d wanted to get back, you could have just said summing, y’know.’

‘As if you’d have listened!’

‘I might have done!’

The lazy, self-satisfied air had dropped away now and Russell looked put-upon.  Indeed, if anything, his voice and posture seemed strangely arrogant; it was his way of getting defensive, Matt knew, but that didn’t prevent it from being irritating as hell.  He was up off the bed in an instant, his hands on his hips in a way which his lack of trousers made amusing rather than impressive.

‘Bollocks you would’ve.  You’d got the bird, why would I have mattered?’

‘‘Cos you’re my mate!’

Matt shook his head wearily.  God, how often had he heard this?

‘You want to go out and get laid, Russell, that’s fine; just don’t do it on my fucking watch!  We’re supposed to be filming a fucking... thing, and you ponce off to fuck the first pretty, anonymous American girl who’ll have you!’

‘Her name’s Lauren.’  Russell’s voice was quiet, but the words were shot straight back at Matt with no hesitation.  Matt blinked. 

‘What?’

‘She weren’t anonymous!  Her name’s Lauren, and her mum’s a plastic surgeon, and she fancies red wine and British blokes and Franz Ferdinand.  And she don’t smoke.’

Matt sneered.  ‘Oh brilliant, Russell; you get to know the girls before you shag them.  How fucking noble of you.’

He was fuming; his hair coming out of its ponytail and his fingers ashen from where he had crushed his cigarette between them entirely without realising it.  Russell glowered, beginning to get angry himself. 

‘I din’t shag her, if you wanted to know.  I told her I was sorry but I _couldn’t_ , on account of the fact what I had to get back to me mate who were no doubt waiting for me.  Mayhap I were wrong, though; maybe I ought to have stayed and done it proper!’

‘Didn’t shag her?  What, just a quick blowjob in the loo?  You do treat the ladies proper.’

‘ _Actually_ , Matthew, I went down on her.’  His voice dripped with sarcasm.  ‘You been reading too much of _The Star_ , clearly.’

Matt tossed his long hair over his shoulder with a scoff, looking utterly contemptuous.  ‘ _The Star_ , is it?  This from the man who uses the bleeding _Star_ in his stand up routines.  You’re such a fucking nark, Russell Brand!’

‘ _Don’t call me that!_ ’  The words burst forth in a roar, and Russell froze, his eyes wide and suddenly doe-like, seemingly surprised by the force of his own reaction.  He licked his lips, tipping his head to one side as if it would allow him to see the man before him more clearly. ‘I don’t do that shite anymore.  You know that.  Just... don’t.’

‘No.  No you don’t.  Instead you snog Noel fucking Fielding onstage and send pictures of yourself in a bikini to _The Mirror_ and shag every remotely good looking girl you can sodding find and do everything else to get yourself in the papers!   Searching for spiritual enlightenment my arse- this is gonna get you in the papers; that’s the only point of it!’

Matt drew in a deep breath, unclenching fists which he hadn’t realised had formed at his sides.  He shook his head, trying to calm himself somewhat after the unplanned outburst. 

‘What?’ 

Gone were the Dickensian affectations, the trilled ‘r’s and the elaborate, sesquipedalian language.  Russell’s eyes were narrowed now, his voice cold, his mouth set in a tight, angry line.  It was unnerving, for Russell, Russell never got angry.  At least not at other people.  He was often furious at himself, but he was adept at disguising it, trying to understand it, putting it aside through his AA and his psychotherapy and his yoga.  Matt, of all people, was one of the few who ever saw him really properly angry, and seeing this now somehow only served to infuriate him further.   

‘You fucking left me alone in the bar with the camera crew!  D’you think they wanted anything to do with me?  It’s Russell Brand on the buggering Road, not Matt Morgan.  How the hell did you even get back, anyway?  You can’t drive.’

Russell twitched his fringe out of his eyes with a queer little flick of the head, the expression on his face almost smug.  ‘Lauren was kind enough to walk me back.’

‘Was she?  How bloody lovely.’

‘Yes thank you, it was lovely.  Exceedingly so.’

‘Oh, fuck you, Russell!  I’m- I’m just gonna fucking go to bed, alright?’

Matt turned away, suddenly overwhelmingly fed up with Russell and with all the shit he had to put up with, being his best mate.  And then, quite suddenly, Russell’s voice spoke out from behind him and he very nearly jumped with the shock of it.

‘Fuck me!?’  And Russell’s voice was a shout, as angry as Matt had ever heard him.  ‘Fuck me, Matt Morgan?  Go a-fucking-head!  You want to fuck me, Matt, be my bloody guest.  I’m wide open!’

He turned, his own vitriol rising again, and saw Russell standing with eyes ablaze, his arms flung out in an absurdly Christ-like gesture, ridiculous cowboy boots planted far apart on the floor.  He was consumed for a moment with utter loathing for this man, this best friend of his, from his too tight trousers to his preposterous hair to the effortless way he pulled in girls and somehow made it so neither of them regretted it.  He wanted to... strike him, to pull his hair, to hit him until his pretty face wasn’t so fucking pretty anymore, _something_.

What he ended up doing was kissing him.

It was violent, angry; Matt shoved a hand into Russell’s tangles, crushing their lips together mercilessly and growling a little into the kiss.  He thrust his tongue into Russell’s mouth with no preamble; he had no delusions about the fact that it probably didn’t feel all that good, but at the moment, he really didn’t fucking care, because Russell’s wiry arms were around him, grasping at his shoulders, his back, and he was kissing back.  It was less a kiss than a fight, one of Matt’s hands vicelike in Russell’s hair, the other fingerprinting white marks on his shoulder.  Angrily he bit at Russell’s tongue in his mouth as they continued, making little noises somewhere between fury and pleasure.

‘Fucking... hate- fuck- gonna tear you up, Russ...’

The words were mumbled and garbled between the clashing of tongues and teeth, but it didn’t matter.  All that mattered was that suddenly Russell was up against a wall and Matt could taste blood on his tongue and Russell was no longer fighting back with that unwonted fury but instead _submitting_. 

He was, of all things, allowing himself to be kissed, and the noises he made became less like angry growls and more like moans, so different from the joking sex noises Russell made on a daily basis that Matt felt as if there was a direct connexion from his aural passages to his cock.  His skinny hips rutted against Matt’s, and suddenly it was less about trying to teach him a fucking lesson than about how incredibly, amazingly good it felt, how easily fury was converted into something more like lust.

Matt jerked away, staring at Russell aghast.  He was slumped against the wall, his face twisted in a bizarre combination of anger and desire, his lips swollen and smeared with blood and spit, his hands clutching uselessly at the wall behind him.  He glared at Matt, but there were the clear beginnings of strain at the front of his jeans, so impractically tight that the other man could easily see everything.

Matt shifted on his feet, pushing his hair out of his eyes angrily.  He wanted to be confused, but anger came more easily, so he stuck with that.  ‘I... fuck it.  I’m just gonna go to bed, yeah Russell?’

Russell nodded tightly, staring at the floor with disturbing emptiness.  ‘Yeah.’

‘What time to we have to be off tomorrow?’

A shrug.  ‘Dunno.  ‘Round about half nine, I reckons.’

‘Right, well... ‘night.’

‘Night.’

Normally, Matt would have worried about Russell, as he always did- what would he do, how would he deal?  Five years could easily be undone in a single night, after all.  Now, though, he found he didn’t have the energy.  His limbs were trembling with exertion and with tension, but when he fell into bed, after stripping off his t-shirt and lying flat under scratchy hotel blankets, he fell asleep all but immediately. 

The next morning, he would undoubtedly awake to Russell doing sun salutations and pacing about the place in agitation, reading Jack Kerouac aloud to himself, but for now, he couldn’t bother himself with any of that.  Dreamless sleep would do.


End file.
